


A Beautiful Mind

by jankmusic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Car Accident, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Traumatic Brain Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jankmusic/pseuds/jankmusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there’s nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can’t remember much from the last decade, but he’s willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Playing a Game of “Go”!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicolebrander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicolebrander/gifts), [theheartofadetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartofadetective/gifts).



> This fic is based on a prompt I saw on Tumblr: Sherlock showing up every week with flowers and gifts for Molly and flirting shyly and it takes him a month to ask her out and Molly smiles and says yes because she remembers that it's their 3rd anniversary even if his brain doesn't let him remember.
> 
> Thank you to holnnes and theheartofadetective for putting this on Tumblr!

It really wasn’t a surprise that it was raining in London, and yet Sherlock observed people running about as if they had never witnessed the phenomenon before. He sighed and opened his umbrella before finishing his short walk to New Scotland Yard, three cups of coffee in a small carrier.

 

He had been bored for three days.

 

John Watson took his small (but growing) family to visit his parents for a week, right at the height of a crime dry spell. After harassing Molly for body parts, Lestrade for cases and Mrs. Hudson in general, Lestrade finally snapped and said he could “shadow” him for the day if he brought coffee for himself and Sally Donovan.

 

Sherlock wasted no time in getting dressed that morning, stopping at Molly’s flat to enthusiastically make her breakfast (eggs and toast) and escort her to work like he normally did if they didn’t spend the night together. On his way from St. Bart’s and to the Yard, he stopped and purchased three coffees; one for himself, Lestrade, and Sally Donovan, all made the way they preferred.

 

It was a small peace offering for his apparently abhorrent behavior over the last week.

 

At least that’s what Molly told him to say if Lestrade and Donovan were surprised that he actually purchased quality coffee for them.

 

\-----

 

“Thanks for the coffee. I have some cold cases you can look through while I finish up this paperwork, and then we’re going to drive up to a crime scene. Nothing fancy, just a robbery.” Lestrade pushed Sherlock towards his desk chair. “Computer’s all yours for the cold cases. Just don’t do anything… _illegal_.” He settled in a chair across from Sherlock and sipped at his coffee as he filled out paperwork.

 

With a sigh, Sherlock sat down and pulled the evidence box on the desk into his lap. This particular box held the evidence of a triple homicide from a few years earlier. There were six other boxes of evidence that Lestrade pulled out of the archives for Sherlock, which meant Sherlock would be busy for at least a few hours.

 

The two men worked silently for nearly two hours, the only interruption being from Sherlock, when he left his office to speak to Donovan about the case; it was one of the first ones she ever worked.

 

By the time he solved the triple homicide with limited evidence and research on the computer, Lestrade was ready to leave for the robbery case. As they were walking to Lestrade’s car, he filled Sherlock in on the robbery and he was certain that if they had crime scene photos, Sherlock would have been able to solve the case without leaving his office.

 

Sherlock plopped into the passenger’s seat of Lestrade’s car and put on his seatbelt. He tossed his umbrella to the floor of the car, and then rested his head in his hands.

 

“Tired?”

 

“Bored.”

 

“Of course. Well, after this, wanna get lunch? My treat, if you’re on your best behavior.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child; you don’t have to bribe me to behave.”

 

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Lestrade said, laughing. Sherlock just rolled his eyes again.

 

The two rode in the car in silence for a bit, Sherlock just staring out the window, trying to deduce London’s citizens as they dashed about in the rain. The only reason Sherlock chose to speak after a while was when he got a text message from Donovan, who opted out of going to the crime scene with them, instead working on the mountains of paperwork on her desk. “Sally said you forgot your mobile on her desk. And Molly texted with results from the blood sample from yesterday.”

 

“Great,” Lestrade said. “Text Molly and tell her that we’re going to swing by Bart’s on our way back from the scene.”

 

Sherlock quickly began sending texts, first to Sally and then he was composing his next text to Molly when Lestrade slammed on his brakes, causing Sherlock to drop his phone and strain against his seatbelt. “Bloody idiots! It’s raining, not the end of the world!” He blared on his horn for a moment before taking a deep breath and driving again.

 

“Calm down, Geoff,” Sherlock said, smirking and he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned down grab his phone from between his knees.

 

Lestrade glared at Sherlock for a moment before exhaling loudly and tightening his grip on the wheel; Sherlock was being annoying on purpose. “Well, more people die in accidents from idiot drivers than anything else! If every other bastard driving on the road weren’t driving like idiots, I wouldn’t be so angry, Sher—”

 

He didn’t finish his sentence, because right at that moment, a car speeding behind them slammed into the back of Lestrade’s car.

 

Sherlock didn’t have on his seatbelt.

 

Lestrade watched horrified, as if in slow motion, as Sherlock was launched from his seat and went through the windshield.

 

And then Lestrade’s airbags went off, and he lost consciousness.


	2. Saying Goodbye to Those You So Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up...and doesn't remember much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! :)

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_“His eyelids are fluttering! I think he’s waking up sir!”_

_“Someone get Mr. Holmes from the hallway! Hurry!”_

_“Get ice! Someone call Doctor Hill!”_

_“Close the blinds! Dim the lights!”_

 

He heard all of these things floating through his mind hazily, but the most prominent sound was the beeping. He could hear it and feel it in his bones.

 

After a moment the commotion settled and then there was a woman talking to him. “Mr. Holmes? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

 

He fought to open his eyes and was surprised by how heavy and crusty his eyelids felt. It took a few minutes, but he managed to open his eyes a bit. He blinked a few times before his gaze focused on the dark skinned woman standing over him. She had a stethoscope and was listening to his chest.

 

“It’s great to see you awake, Sherlock,” she said, pulling away from him. “I’m Doctor Hill, and I’ve been looking over you since the accident.”

 

His brow furrowed and he turned his head slowly. He saw his brother sitting in a chair beside him, an impassive look on his face. He jumped when another woman, this one infinitely younger than the doctor, appeared in his vision with a warm flannel. She gently began wiping around his eyes, and soon he was able to open and close them with ease. He turned back to the doctor after the other woman left; he assumed she was a nurse of some kind. The doctor was examining the machinery around him, as if she was giving him time to wake up.

 

“Mickey?” he croaked, his lips and throat impossibly dry. He saw his brother jerk to the edge of his seat. “Mickey, why is she calling me Sherlock? M’name’s William.”

 

“Oh dear…” Mycroft breathed, before getting the attention of the doctor. “Doctor Hill, it seems we have a serious problem. Sherlock hasn’t called me Mickey and he hasn’t gone by William in almost twenty years.”

 

The doctor immediately returned to Sherlock’s side. “What is your name?”

 

“William Holmes,” he said slowly, wincing as his head ached. He tried sitting up, but his brother put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

 

“Do you know why were you brought here?”

 

He looked around the room. It was immaculate and smelled strongly of disinfectant. It resembled a government facility that he vaguely remembered, and his heart rate increased. The incessant beeping that he heard when he first woke up sped up too, and he realized that it was his heart. Then he looked at his brother, who truly looked worried, and he felt sick to his stomach. “Drugs,” he said, glancing at the doctor before sitting up suddenly, leaning towards Mycroft. “I’m so sorry, Mickey! I’m so sorry!”

 

He was hyperventilating and clutching Mycroft to him tightly, babbling about how he thought he could quit using without the help of rehab, and he ignored his brother as he tried to speak over him. Eventually, the nurse had to come in and administer a sedative in order to calm him down.

 

As he was drifting asleep, he heard Mycroft and the doctor discuss neurologists, testing, and a MRI. He had no idea why he needed any of that done; he overdosed on drugs not something worse. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was his irritation over his confusion; nothing was making sense.

 

\-----

 

For the next three days, Sherlock was surrounded by a team of doctors, undergoing numerous tests, scans, and physicals. In that time, he learned that he was in a severe car accident eleven days prior to the day he woke up, and had memory loss due to a traumatic brain injury. It was determined after all the testing that he lost roughly the last ten years of his life, possibly a bit more. It was a hard concept for him to understand because he didn’t feel like he was forgetting anything, but after looking in the mirror and seeing the cuts, scrapes, and bruises on his face and chest, there was no other way to explain his injuries.

 

And as Spock once said, “Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.”

 

On the third day after he woke up, two whole weeks after his accident, Sherlock was officially diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Amnesia and Retrograde Amnesia, and it would be up to chance whether or not he would regain his memories. Sherlock tried to remember all the little details about his traumatic brain injury, like what parts of his brain received the most damage and whether or not he would ever recover, but he kept forgetting and he noticed that some of his nursing staff was tired of explaining to him what was wrong with his mind, so he dropped it. He remembered that he was having severe memory problems, and that’s all that mattered.

 

His parents came to visit soon after that, and Sherlock was startled to see how much older they looked. He had to keep reminding himself that what he remembered and real time were not currently the same. It was also the reason why Mycroft looked thinner than the last time he could remember.

 

As he was talking to his mother and generally basking in her presence, he heard Mycroft talking to his father about how his personality was different.

 

“I’m not _different_ ,” Sherlock said, eyeing his brother and father. His father immediately reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Tears of frustration filled Sherlock’s eyes, but he didn’t let go of his hand. Taunting from his childhood and young adulthood resounded in his head; peers were some of the worst bullies, teasing him and pushing him around because he was _different_.

 

“You’re not different,” his father said, his voice warbling a bit. It obviously wasn’t the first time his father had to tell him that. “You were just like this when you were a boy, when you still went by William.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts and memories that were jumbled together. His Mind Palace was in complete disarray, crumbling from the sheer force of his thinking and his exhaustion. One of the psychologists he met had advised him to hold off on rebuilding his Mind Palace until his headaches went away or else he could make himself sick with pain.

 

Finally Sherlock looked at his father. “And I go by Sherlock now?” He meant for it to be a statement but it sounded like a question.

 

“Yes you do, love,” his mother answered.

 

“And I grew up to be a what? A _bastard_?” He knew that one of his most “recent” memories included him, drugs, and a lot of screaming and shouting; he didn’t know the context or whom he was shouting at but he knew he wasn’t a good man.

 

His parents rushed to say he wasn’t that kind of person, but Sherlock caught the look of guilt on his brother’s face. Evidently, he grew up to be some kind of tyrant.

 

“I’m confused,” Sherlock said, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “I don’t remember anything from the last ten years, and what I _do_ remember is all mixed up and not organized, but evidently I’ve regressed to my ten year old self? Why? I don’t understand why this is happening, and my brain hurts!”

 

Soon he was enveloped in his mother’s arms, and he felt his father’s hands on his back, rubbing soothingly. “Just take some time, Sherlock,” his mother said soothingly. “Before you know it, you’ll get your memories back and you’ll be right as rain.”

 

No one chose to mention that the longer it took for Sherlock to regain his memories, the grimmer his recovery would be.

 

\-----

 

Staying in the hospital was taxing on Sherlock, mostly because he had the tendency to get lost every single time he left his room. What he thought was the bathroom was often the main door to the corridor, and he frequently found himself wandering around, smiling at other patients in the halls, greeting whoever he ran into, and otherwise being friendly. He would only wander around for a few minutes at a time, before a nurse or doctor would see him and encourage him to go back to his room. Sherlock always did so willingly with a smile on his face.

 

The first and only time Sherlock managed to escape from the hospital, he was found in a garden only a few kilometers away, sitting on a large rock, confused as to why he was in a hospital gown and why he couldn’t remember where he got the painful bruises, scrapes, and cuts that littered his body.

 

After that, Sherlock had around the clock supervision. More often than not, Mycroft would sit in his room and work quietly on paperwork, use his laptop, or read the paper while Sherlock quietly recovered from his injuries. On the weekends, his parents would visit, and if Sherlock didn’t have any visitors, a nurse would come in at fifteen minute intervals to check on him.

 

Three weeks after waking up in the hospital and with most of his physical injuries healed, Sherlock’s team of doctors decided that it was time for him to recover at home. Sherlock’s memories were solidifying; he now remembered everything up to ten years ago, with only minimal confusion and haziness. The doctors believed that the memories stopped right around the time Sherlock became sober. Any time after that, Sherlock couldn’t remember, and if he thought about it too hard, his headaches would intensify.

 

\-----

 

“I think it would be in your best interest if you stayed with your brother when you return to London, rather than staying alone in your flat. You’re still getting debilitating headaches, you sometimes don’t remember unfamiliar faces, and London isn’t the same as you last saw it. Of course, as your doctor, these are only suggestions. I cannot force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

 

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, dressed for the first time in clothing other than his hospital gown in nearly three weeks. Mycroft had packed a bag with his toiletries, pants, jeans, and a comfortable jumper; all clothing he frequently wore over a decade ago when he was still in University.

 

Sherlock nodded his head. “That’s fine. I think I get along with him for the most part.” He smiled as brightly as he could and slowly moved off his bed. His body was still a bit sore from the accident, but his injuries were healing and fading. “Thank you, Doctor Hill, for watching over me.”

 

“Not a problem, Sherlock. Remember to make those appointments. It’s all in your release paperwork.” Sherlock glanced down at the paperwork clutched tightly in his hand. He had a list of doctors who he needed to call when he arrived at Mycroft’s home to make appointments with.

 

“Good luck, Sherlock!” The doctor called, as he stepped out of his hospital room. He turned and waved at her before walking down the corridor and towards the lifts, where he could see Mycroft and a young woman standing and waiting.

 

The woman was using her mobile phone, but she held her hand out to Sherlock. Thinking that she wanted to shake hands, he put his bag down at his feet and grasped her hand firmly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I can’t remember if we’ve met before.” He smiled at her, and she looked up from her phone in obvious surprise.

 

“I’m Anthea.” She shook his hand just as firmly. Sherlock let go of her hand and picked up his bag.

 

“Are you his wife?” he tilted his head towards his brother who was now standing in the lift, his hand keeping the door open. Mycroft hadn’t mentioned having a wife, nor did he have a ring on his finger, but a lot of the focus had been on his recovery. He didn’t blame himself for missing something like his brother being married.

 

“No,” Anthea said with a chuckle, glancing at the scowling elder Holmes.

 

“His girlfriend, then?”

 

“Not that either.” She took pity on Sherlock, because he was looking more and more confused. “I’m his personal assistant, and I can take your bag.”

 

“I can carry it,” Sherlock said, finally stepping into the lift. He looked at Mycroft and said, “A personal assistant, Mycroft? Really?” But the bright smile on his face cancelled out the sarcasm in his voice. Anthea and Mycroft exchanged worrying glances; Mycroft hadn’t seen this playful side of Sherlock in a very long time, and it was going to take some time to get used to.


	3. Cracking the Russian Codes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New friendships with old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that I do NOT own Sherlock yet? I don't. And I don't own A Beautiful Mind either.

Sherlock arrived at Mycroft’s home a little after noon, and Mycroft insisted that Sherlock eat before going through his release paperwork from the hospital and making all the necessary appointments.

 

He and Mycroft ate cheese sandwiches, crisps, and water in companionable silence, before the two of them set to work on the paperwork.

 

After spending the rest of the day making appointments, Sherlock found himself curled up on the sofa in Mycroft’s office, wishing away the pain that he’d been plagued with since he woke up. The doctors told him the headaches would go away with time, but because of his previous addictions, he personally chose to forgo any and all pain medications. Even though it had been three years since his last relapse, in Sherlock’s mind it was only weeks ago, and he didn’t want to risk relapsing again.

 

“Mycroft?” he asked, fiddling with a loose string on his jumper.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Have I made friends?” he asked shyly, refusing to look up from his hands. “From what I remember when I was in Uni, I didn’t make…many.”

 

“You have a small group of fiercely loyal friends, Sherlock. They’ve been very worried about you, actually.”

 

“Should I visit them? Do you think I’ll remember them?” He looked up at Mycroft then, hopeful. He never had friends growing up, and the idea that he had some, if not many as an adult flooded him with warmth.

 

Mycroft sighed warily and rubbed his temples, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “If you can’t recall their names now, I’m not certain you’ll be able to recall them later, but seeing other people and being in their company will be good for you. I can’t be here all the time. I will be returning to work the day after tomorrow.”

 

“Right.” Sherlock sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands. The excitement of getting out of the hospital and making so many appointments exhausted him and made his head throb. He almost felt sick to his stomach as he said, weakly, “Tomorrow, we’ll visit my friends. You can tell me all about them.”

 

Sherlock heard Mycroft stand up from his desk and he soon felt the weight of his hand on his shoulder. “Your head?” he asked.

 

“It’s terrible,” he admitted softly. Not wanting to worry his brother any longer, he made the decision to retire to his bedroom. “I’m going to bed.” He stood up on wobbly feet, Mycroft immediately wrapping his hand around his upper arm. For a moment, Sherlock was motionless as he waited for his vertigo to dissipate, and then he took a hesitant step forward, Mycroft still keeping a firm grip on his arm. He faltered at the door, looking up and down the hallway “I don’t remember where my room is.” Was he supposed to feel this… _shame_ for not remembering something that Mycroft had told him only a few hours ago? The doctors warned him that he might forget things, but repetition should help him remember.

 

“I’ll show you. Come along.”

 

And with that, Mycroft showed his younger brother the bathroom and his bedroom.

 

When Sherlock was alone once again, he crawled into bed, carefully pulling the duvet to his chin and rolling to his side. He felt completely out of sorts, his brain hurt, and he desperately wished that things could go back to how they used to be, whatever that was.

 

Tears filled his eyes for what seemed like the millionth time since he woke up. He scrubbed at his face warily; he knew that crying was uncharacteristic for him but he was frequently overwhelmed by his emotions as of late, and his new therapist warned him that it might be like this until his brain healed.

 

Sherlock fell asleep with tears still pouring from his eyes and his thoughts a jumbled mess.

 

\-----

 

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he panicked, not remembering where he was. He jumped out of the unfamiliar bed, looking around the room. It was plain, with oak furniture, doors, and floors. The bed was small and in a corner, and there was nothing personal of his that hung up on the walls. His thoughts were fuzzy, and he thought he was either high or coming down from a high, and it worried him that he couldn’t tell the difference. He ran his hands through his hair, wincing at the pain in his head. Then he made a mad dash to the door and threw it open, looking up and down the hallway.

 

Nothing looked familiar.

 

He was about to go on a search when he saw his brother appear from what could only be a bedroom, blue silk pajamas barely visible with a robe tied tightly at his waist. He looked like he had been awake for a while and was expecting him that morning.

 

“Good morning, brother. Did you sleep well?”

 

Suddenly, his mind began to clear, and he was remembering things. He was staying with his brother because he was in an accident and was deemed too unstable to live on his own just yet. He felt a blush on his cheeks and he looked down at his toes as they tapped against the cool wooden floors. “Morning, Mycroft.”

 

“Breakfast will be done soon. Why don’t you shower and get ready? You have a busy day ahead of you.”

 

“I do?” He looked at his brother slowly.

 

“Yes. We’re meeting John Watson and his family this morning. I’ll tell you more about them over breakfast.”

 

“I’m meeting my friends today…” Sherlock said, rocking back on his feet. “Right. I’ll just…get ready then.” Sherlock turned around slowly and went back into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against the solid wood and gingerly began sorting through his thoughts until he felt his headache return full force. Then he pushed away from the door and went to the wardrobe and began searching through his clothes.

 

Once Sherlock found his way into the bathroom and showered, he went downstairs and followed the smell of frying bacon. His brother was sitting at a small table in the kitchen, sipping at his coffee. Sherlock sat down across from him and after a moment began assembling a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast.

 

He ate quietly as Mycroft shuffled through the morning paper, and he didn’t get around to asking about his friends before Mycroft’s phone rang and he announced that the car was there to take them on their trip.

\-----

 

“I have a best friend?” Sherlock asked incredulously, staring at Mycroft with wide eyes. “I’ve never…”

 

“Yes. John Watson is your best friend,” Mycroft said, unable to hold back the small smile that graced his features before he schooled his expression; the look of wonder on his brother’s face was a direct comparison to his ten year old self. It was refreshing. “You were flatmates and then…well, you left for a bit and came back. Now he’s married and has one daughter and another child on the way.”

 

“What’s his wife’s name?”

 

“Mary.”

 

“And the daughter?”

 

“She’s actually your Goddaughter.” Mycroft had to cough into his hand to hide his snort of laughter at Sherlock’s once again flabbergasted expression. “Her name is Scarlett. She’s three.”

 

“This John and Mary trust me enough to be the Godfather to their child? I’m a drug addict and I have never held down a job in my life!”

 

Mycroft leaned across his seat. “Sherlock, you have been sober for almost ten and a half years. You’re a Consulting Detective and have been living well for six years. I know I’ve told you this several times, and because of your head injury, you’re not remembering well, but you must believe me when I say that you are not the terrible person you think you are. You have grown to be an exceptional young man.”

 

Sherlock rubbed his face tiredly. “I need to write things down. It might help.”

 

“I’ll have Anthea pick up a notebook that you can keep in your pocket.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head and rested it against the window. “Who are my other friends again?”

 

“There is Gregory Lestrade. He was in the car accident with you. Remember Mummy told you about it?” He paused for a moment, watching as Sherlock tried to recall the information; a lot of the things that he was told right after waking up was forgotten; Sherlock had to be told numerous times that he was in a car accident and not overdosed on drugs. Eventually, Sherlock nodded his head. “He is a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. You are colleagues and friends. There’s Mrs. Hudson, and she’s your landlady at two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street. If you are feeling well enough in a few weeks and if your doctors agree that it’s safe, you’ll be returning there. And then there’s Molly Hooper. She’s your…girlfriend.”

 

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t take the piss out of me, Mycroft. I’ve never had a girlfriend.” He couldn’t remember if he and Mycroft joked prior to his accident, but this seemed an odd time to start teasing each other again.

 

“Why would I lie, Sherlock?”

 

“You used to tease me all the time?” Mycroft was quiet, and Sherlock sighed. “Anyone else?”

 

Mycroft hesitated a moment before sighing. “Just acquaintances you’ve worked with. You’ll meet them if you return to work.”

 

The rest of the ride to Sherlock’s best friend’s home was made in silence. When the car pulled to a stop, Mycroft got out, and Sherlock shuffled after him, feeling a little hesitant and embarrassed. What was he supposed to do when he greeted the man who he was supposed to be well acquainted with?

 

“Come along,” Mycroft said, pausing at the door. He waited for Sherlock to catch up with him before he knocked.

 

The door opened as if John Watson had been waiting there. “Mycroft,” he said in greeting, opening the door wider.

 

“John. Remember what I told you on the phone,” he murmured, before stepping inside. Sherlock looked up hesitantly, and then followed Mycroft inside.

 

The door closed softly behind them, and Sherlock looked up from scrutinizing his shoes and at the man still standing with his back to the door. He had graying blond hair, tan skin, and was remarkably shorter than him.

 

Without really thinking, Sherlock held out his hand and smiled hesitatingly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

 

The rapid blinking and choked breathing from John Watson alarmed Sherlock and he looked wildly at Mycroft, afraid he did something wrong. _This isn’t how old friends greet each other!_ He couldn’t help but scold himself.

 

“Sorry,” John croaked after a moment. His voice sounded a bit hoarse. Sherlock slowly returned his gaze to John, apprehension and fear shining brightly in his eyes. His hand was still out, and John took it, giving him a firm handshake. “I wasn’t ready—anyway, I’m John Watson. If you want, we can move to the sitting room. It’s a bit more comfortable than this hallway.”

 

Sherlock made to follow John, but he realized Mycroft wasn’t coming with him. “Aren’t you…?” he asked, his voice wavering just slightly. He wasn’t sure if he could do this alone. He was already feeling ill in the presence of this man who was supposed to be his best friend, he couldn’t fathom doing the rest of this “meet and greet” without his brother.

 

“You’ll be fine,” Mycroft said, pushing him forward. “You trust this man with your life, Sherlock.”

 

“Do I?” he squeaked, “Because I don’t remember him!”

 

At the stern look his brother gave him, Sherlock sighed and slumped forward a bit, finally following John Watson into his sitting room.

 

Upon crossing the threshold, Sherlock was expecting to sit down on a sofa or chair and suffer through awkward small talk; the idea filled him with anxiety. Instead, he was met with a small child running at him and wrapping their arms around his legs.

 

“Sherlock!” she shouted, and the volume of her voice made his head explode with pain. He wobbled on his feet and latched onto the doorframe behind him. With his free hand, he cradled his head. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as nausea filled him and his brain literally pounded against his skull.

 

“Scarlett!” John scolded, rushing forward and scooping the small child up from the floor. “What did Mummy and I tell you?” And then rushing into the room, squeezing passed Sherlock, was a woman with short blond hair, a rounded belly, and an apron over jeans and a plain white t-shirt.

 

“I’ll take her!”

 

And just like that, she was gone again.

 

“Come on, have a seat. I’ve got you.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t open his eyes, but with the guidance of a hand on his arm, he was led to a chair and pushed into it. “Sorry about that. Scarlett is rather attached to you and has missed you a lot.”

 

“Scarlett?” he croaked, rubbing at his temples.

 

“My daughter. She’s three years old. You’re her Godfather. I’m not sure how much Mycroft has told you, actually.”

 

Sherlock sat in silence for several long minutes until he felt he could open his eyes. When he did, he tried to smile at John who was kneeling in front of him. “It’s alright. How long has it been since I’ve seen you and your family?”

 

“About a month. We were on a short holiday when you got into your accident. The government facility that Mycroft took you to wouldn’t allow non-familial visitors anyway.” Sherlock watched as John sat back on his heels. “Do you need something for your head?”

 

“Uhhh…no thank you.” John’s eyes widened a bit after Sherlock spoke, and in turn, Sherlock’s eyes widened. Did he say something wrong? John could evidently sense the worry, because he smiled just slightly.

 

“You normally aren’t so polite.”

 

“I’ve been told that the injury has changed me…somewhat. I remember how I behaved before, but I can’t make myself act that way.” Sherlock curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He hated knowing that he was _different_.

 

“It’s all fine,” John said firmly, giving his knee a squeeze. He stood to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tea?” he asked. “Mary filled the kettle right before you got here.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and then he looked up at John. Tea sounded…wonderful. “Mary is your…wife?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do we get along?” he couldn’t help but ask. She had made such a quick and quiet appearance without saying hello that Sherlock was given the impression that he was probably cruel to her at some point and they didn’t speak. He was surprised when John’s mouth quirked up into a grin.

 

“You get along fine. You two are as thick as thieves, actually. Always getting into trouble.”

 

“Really?” John nodded his head, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. It seemed he had two best friends instead of just the one. “I would like to meet her…err…re-meet her. Please.”

 

He stood up slowly from his seat, and followed his shorter friend through the sitting room and to the kitchen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And I'm going to start responding to comments and stuff, so...get ready for that! :)


	4. Scent Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting for this installment! It was difficult to write, and most of it was written during a really difficult writers block. But I like this chapter, and hopefully you will too!

 Sherlock stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as John walked towards his wife. Their three year old daughter was sitting in a high chair eating cut up apple slices and Sherlock smiled at her, lifting his hand and waving. She grinned brightly at him and waved back.

 

Sherlock looked away from the little girl when he heard a sniffle. He stared wide eyed at… _Mary_?...Mary, who was staring at him with wide, watery eyes. She closed the distance between them and cupped his cheeks in her hands. “I never cry,” she choked out, hastily wiping at her eyes.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

 

“Can I just? Can I?” Mary said, before wrapping her arms around him tightly. Sherlock very slowly reciprocated the hug. “It’s alright, it’s fine,” she murmured. “You’ll remember someday. I’m just happy you’re alive.” She pulled away from him eventually and wiped at her eyes. “We can’t keep almost losing you, Sherlock Holmes!” She patted his chest over the scar that he couldn’t get his brother to explain.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened even more, if that was possible. “I’ve almost died before?” he asked.

 

Mary squeaked and looked at John. John stepped forward, a slight grin on his face. He grabbed Mary’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You actually made a habit of it.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. Maybe after tea we can show you the blogs.”

 

“Blogs?”

 

\-----

 

They never got around to looking at the “blogs”, but frankly, Sherlock forgot that John had even mentioned them. He found himself enjoying the presence of his friends, especially the three year old little girl who was curled up beside him, fast asleep.

 

After a light lunch, there was a knock at the front door, and Mary went to answer it.

 

Sherlock heard his brother and Mary greet each other, and he looked up and smiled at him. “Afternoon, Mycroft.”

 

“Did you have an enjoyable visit?”

 

“I did.” Sherlock glanced at John and smiled at him before returning his gaze to Mycroft; he didn’t _see_ John’s tight smile and sad eyes. “Is it time to leave already?”

 

“If you would rather stay here for the day, and if they are amenable…?” Mycroft looked from Mary to John, as if he knew of the emotional duress Sherlock’s visit had put on them.

 

“I thought…maybe if it was alright…I could maybe meet my other friends, please?” Sherlock turned to John when he heard him take a shuddering breath. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, finally noticing how sad his friend looked. He stood to his feet suddenly, feeling a bit dizzy and wobbling on his feet. “I apologize. I should have realized that my visit was disrupting your daily routine. I’ll just go home, and maybe we can meet again?”

 

“I told you it’s all fine,” John said, standing up and putting a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, directing him back to his seat. “I’ll make a few calls, and I’ll take you to see everyone else.”

 

He dug his phone out of his pocket and stepped out of the room. After a moment, Mycroft followed him, leaving Sherlock, Mary, and Scarlett in the sitting room.

 

Mary suddenly reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t feel like your disrupting our lives; we’ve missed you desperately, and we love spending time with you.”

 

Sherlock stared at their joined hands for a moment, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. _This is what having friends’ makes you feel?_ “Thank you,” he whispered, “I really…just thank you.”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock had to sit on his hands as he rode in a cab to Scotland Yard with John in order to stop fidgeting. He knew that he was going to visit his friend who he was in the accident with, and that made him nervous. He couldn’t remember the context of the accident, whether or not it was his fault that the accident occurred in the first place, but he knew that he had been told all about it at the hospital.

 

“We’re here,” John said, breaking through Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock blinked a few times and then started to get out of the cab.

 

“I don’t have any money,” he said suddenly, halfway out of the vehicle.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” John said, pulling out his wallet. “Your brother was kind enough to give us money for traveling and dinner.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Sherlock followed John through Scotland Yard. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his gaze lowered. “Do I really get along with all these officers? I remember getting arrested and being belligerent towards anyone in a uniform.”

 

John cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t say you get along with all of them; but you do have a mutual respect for each other…for the most part…I guess. Let’s just say, compared to four or five years ago, you get along with everyone just fine.”

 

“Hmm…” Sherlock hummed.

 

They continued their journey in silence until they stepped into a room full of desks. Sherlock saw people looking at him, pointing, and whispering. He flinched and clasped his hands tightly in front of him, trying to ignore everyone around him. He finally looked up when he saw a man standing in a doorway; he was older with gray hair. He had on a suit, but he was forgoing a jacket and had his left arm in a sling. Fading bruises covered his face, and Sherlock saw a few cuts visible on his arms and face.

 

Sherlock stared hard at his face; he was vaguely familiar. It was as if he had seen this man before, a long time ago, but he couldn’t remember his name…which was expected of him, since he did have amnesia.

 

“My office,” he called across the room, and John picked up the pace, leading Sherlock into the spacious office. When they stepped inside, John hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, and then he pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

 

“I saw Sally. I’ll just talk to her for a mo’.” The moment John spoke, Sherlock was flooded with another wave of anxiety. He couldn’t bring himself to ask John to stay, he only smiled at him weakly and then turned to the man who he only vaguely recognized.

 

“You don’t know me,” the man said, softly, “But I’m going to hug you.”

 

For the second time that day, Sherlock Holmes was being held in an embrace. He took a deep steadying breath and was nearly bowled over with the mixture of soap, washing powder, and cologne that this man was wearing. He found himself scrabbling to hold on, his hands fisting the back of his shirt as he suddenly remembered why this man was vaguely familiar.

 

He had been sick—very sick, vomiting, fever, chills, and he wasn’t certain, but he thought this might have been him going through withdrawals for the final time. This man had been there with him, wiping his brow and keeping him comfortable and hydrated.

 

He just couldn’t remember his name.

 

“Alright?”

 

“No, no, no…” Sherlock groaned, pressing his forehead against his shoulder. He felt sick and it was as if the memory trigged his headache to worsen. “Need to sit.”

 

“Right, right.” And the man began shuffling them to the closest seat, which happened to be a worn black sofa against the wall. Carefully, he manhandled Sherlock until he was sitting, his head thrust between his knees. “Do I need to get John?”

 

“Who?” he asked weakly.

 

“John Watson. Your friend who came here with you? Short, blond hair, walks funny.”

 

“Umm…no. I’m alright. Just give me a minute.” Sherlock stayed motionless until his stomach stopped roiling. Then he sat up slowly and tried to smile at the older man hovering over him, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “I remember you…”

 

“You do?” His eyebrows shot high upward.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pausing for a moment. He rubbed his temples and rested his head in his hands. “You were with me when I stopped using?”

 

“I wasn’t the only one. I don’t think you’ve met her yet, Molly Hooper?”

 

Sherlock had to think if he met Molly Hooper. The only woman he met since his return to London was John’s wife…and her name was Mary, not Molly. “No.” He was embarrassed and ruffled his hair with his free hand; he couldn’t remember anyone and he was tired of feeling ashamed for not remembering the names of the important people in his life. “But I don’t remember your name, sorry.” Sherlock’s eyes widened when the man let out a bark of laughter. He looked up slowly. “That’s funny to you, that I don’t remember?” he asked defensively.

 

“No,” the man said, sobering up. He moved to sit down beside Sherlock on the sofa. “Not at all. It’s just, you’ve always struggled remembering my name. Always. I’m Greg Lestrade. I’m a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. This is my office.”

 

“And I was in the accident with you, obviously.” Sherlock held his hand out for him to shake. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, but you already knew that.”

 

“You were. And I’m so sorry. I should have realized that you weren’t wearing your seatbelt. If I would have waited for you to grab your phone and put your belt back on, you wouldn’t be in this mess.” He was suddenly gripping Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own. “I am so sorry, Sherlock. This is all my fault.”

 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Weren’t we hit from behind?”

 

“Yeah. Car was speeding in the rain and didn’t see us.”

 

“It was an accident,” Sherlock said.

 

“I know! It’s just…that brother of yours,” he said, letting go of Sherlock’s hand and staring straight ahead. “He did a real shite job at keeping us informed, you know? We weren’t allowed to visit you in the hospital, we weren’t told what injuries you sustained! Hell, I didn’t even know you were home until John called me a bit ago. I’m still trying to understand your injuries!”

 

“You and me both!” Sherlock said. After a moment of silence, Sherlock shifted and looked at Greg. “I’m sorry about Mycroft. And are you alright?” His eyes flitted over his sling and the fading bruises.

 

“Yeah. I’ll be out of this in a week or two. Nothing serious. And I really am sorry, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head once. “I’m sorry I don’t remember much. My doctors said that I’ve lost the last ten years of my memory. They think it stops around the time I got sober, and if I knew you then, it’s why I sort of recognize you now. It was the smell of your soap and washing powder that made me remember.”

 

“Well, that’s good then. It means Molly and Mrs. Hudson should be familiar enough for you. You met Molly and I at about the same time, and you’ve known Mrs. Hudson since your late teens.” Lestrade patted Sherlock on the knee. “All you have to do is sniff around some, and you’ll get a few more memories!” Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle, finally relaxing and sinking into the sofa that they were sitting on.

 

\-----

 

Visiting with Lestrade had been very insightful, if not overwhelming for Sherlock. He learned about the kind of work he and John did before his accident. He also learned that the last few years were not very pleasant, case-wise, because of blokes named Moriarty and Magnussen. Sherlock tried to inquire more about the two men, but before Greg could tell him what happened, John interrupted him and said that Mycroft suggested that he not learn those details until his headaches went away, just as a precaution.

 

Sherlock wanted to be annoyed that he was being kept in the dark, but he figured that most everything around him was dark, and he just had to wait until it was appropriate for him to know.

 

It didn’t make it any less annoying though.

 

With the help of John, Sherlock was able to explain to the best of his ability his head injury. Sherlock wasn’t sure if Mycroft informed John of the details of his memory problems or if John was a good doctor and knew about brain injuries and helped Sherlock out when his memory failed him. Sherlock made a mental note to ask John what kind of doctor he was, and he hoped that he would remember to ask.

 

As they were leaving to return to John’s flat, Greg went to his desk and rummaged around in a drawer. “Do you think you could use this?” he asked, showing Sherlock a black spiral bound notebook. It was too big to fit in his jeans pocket. “I’ve got a pen too. When you get your big coat back, it’ll fit quite nicely in the pockets.”

 

“That would be very helpful, Greg,” Sherlock said, smiling brightly and taking the notebook. It didn’t go unnoticed when Greg and John exchanged sad glances, but Sherlock chose not to comment; he was certain he made some kind of social faux pas, but if it was serious enough, John would pull him aside and tell him about it, or at least he hoped he would.

 

Sherlock flicked through the blank pages for a moment before looking up at his friend. “It was nice meeting you…again. Umm…maybe we can meet again at a pub or something?” He turned to John suddenly, concern on his face. “Is that something I normally do? Go to pubs? I never did it in Uni…”

 

“You hate going to the pub,” John said, he lips curling up slightly.

 

“But we can give it a go; see if you’ve changed your opinion. If not, takeaway at mine will suffice.”

 

“Right. Okay.” Sherlock smiled and took a step backwards towards the door. “I’ll see you later.”

 

\-----

 

Instead of returning to Mycroft’s for the evening, Sherlock followed John back to his home, where Mary and Scarlett were waiting for them with takeaway. Sherlock politely declined food and sat down in the sitting room on a chair. He pulled his feet onto the seat and rested his new notebook on his knees. He toyed with the pen for a few moments before he uncapped it and opened the notebook.

 

_People I Know:_

 

He hesitated for a moment, and then he began writing what he could remember.

 

_John Watson: short, blond, walks funny. Doctor and former military man. Best friend._   
_Mary Watson: also short, blond, and married to John._   
_Scarlett Watson: three year old toddler. Daughter of John and Mary. My Goddaughter!!_   
_Greg Lestrade: gray hair, tan, white teeth. Colleague. Detective Inspector. Friend. In car accident with me. Father figure? Helped me during withdrawals from drugs._

 

When he finished his very short list, he turned a few pages and added a new heading.

 

_About Me:_

He tried to write down everything he could remember about himself.

_Single_   
_Consulting Detective_   
_Sober for nearly eleven years_   
_Lost last ten years of memory_   
_In a car accident and suffering a traumatic brain injury_   
_Anxiety in new situations_   
_My Mind Palace is in shambles_   
_I get headaches when I think too hard_

 

He looked up from his writing when John cleared his throat. _How long have I been working in my notebook?_ John looked like he was in pain as he shifted his feet. “One more…person you need to meet today. She’s on her way.”

 

“Is it…” Sherlock trailed off, trying to think of the name Lestrade mentioned earlier. “Molly? Hoop…Molly Hooper?”

 

“Yeah. She should be here in a few minutes.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered what Mycroft had told him earlier in the car. He wasn’t sure why that conversation was coming to mind so readily when hardly anything else stuck. “Did you know,” Sherlock began, toying with the pen in his hands, “Mycroft she’s my girlfriend! Can you believe that? Even though I’ve lost my mind, I know I wouldn’t have a girlfriend.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Mummy and Dad tried to tell me I wasn’t a bastard, I’ve…observed that I wasn’t that good of a person before the accident. And no woman in their right mind would fall in love with a bastard, right?”

 

Sherlock returned to his notebook, adding a few more notes to his “About Me” section. He heard John mumbled something, but he wasn’t paying close attention to him.

 

Only a few minutes later, Sherlock was once again brought out of his work by little Scarlett Watson. “Night-night, ‘lock!” She climbed onto his lap to kiss his cheek and hug him. “Glad you’re not sick no more.” Before he could comment, she was pulled from his lap by Mary.

 

“It’s bath and bedtime!”

 

When silence settled over the house, other than Scarlett’s soft giggles floating down the stairs, Sherlock stood from his chair and carefully walked towards the kitchen, where he could hear John making tea. “Are you hungry?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Well, have biscuits anyway. And you don’t have to creep around here. You’re allowed to go wherever you want…within reason.” John turned and flashed Sherlock a smile. Then he turned back to the tea. “Molly will be here any minute. Why don’t you take those biscuits and sit in the living room?”

 

Without argument, Sherlock made his way back to where he came from with a plate of biscuits. He plopped down in the chair, balancing the plate on his knee. He opened up his notebook and began making notes under a new heading labeled, “Questions to Ask”.

 

At the sound of soft knocks on the door, Sherlock looked up. He could hear John moving to answer it, and he found the silence in the flat unnerving. No longer was Scarlett giggling in the bath, which he assumed meant Mary was tucking her in for the night, probably reading or singing to her. He wasn’t sure if Mary or John sang or played musical instruments, so he made a note in his notebook under his newest heading, just to ensure that he would remember to ask someday.

 

When neither John nor the visitor entered the living room, Sherlock jumped to his feet. He couldn’t sit still anymore. This was unlike any of the encounters he had that day and he was wondering what was taking so long for them to greet him. _Maybe she’s helping with the tea?_ He ruffled his hair and started a slow circuit around the room.

 

He halted when he heard a choked breath. He turned towards the door and felt his knees buckle.

 

A woman who was very petite and with long brown hair plaited down her back stood before him. Her mouth was small and her lips were turned down in a frown. Her eyes were wide and brown and he noticed a slight tremor in her chin, as if she was trying not to cry.

 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for a few moments; he didn’t know what to say to this very beautiful woman who was obviously emotional over his presence.

 

After standing in silence of several long seconds, the woman took a deep breath through her nose and then smiled. It was as if whatever was bothering her about him was pushed to the side. Sherlock felt as if he was punched in the gut and he had to stop himself from gasping aloud. He looked behind Molly, desperately wanting John to be in the room with him, but he wasn’t. He broke out in a cold sweat and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m Molly Hooper,” she said softly.

 

“S-Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock offered, staring at her for a moment before looking down at his shoes.

 

“I’m really happy you’re doing better.” Sherlock nodded his head, unable to raise his gaze. “I was really worried about you when you were in the hospital. I wish I was allowed to visit at least once.”

 

“T-that would have been—Mycroft said no visitors at the hospital.”

 

“I know.” Molly closed the distance between them, and Sherlock sucked in a breath, holding completely still. He felt her hand, warm and soft, against his cheek, and he tried to raise his eyes to meet hers but he couldn’t; all he managed to do was glare at the floor. He was overwhelmed with this complete feeling of guilt and betrayal for not remembering someone like her; it was obvious that they were close friends at one point or another. Her reaction was somewhat similar to John’s reaction from that morning.

 

He gasped when she dropped her hand and took several steps backwards. “S-sorry! I forgot you don’t like to be touched!” Sherlock wanted to stop her, to tell her that he accepted a handshake from John and hugs from Greg and Mary, but he couldn’t seem to get his mouth and brain to cooperate.

 

They stood in awkward silence for only a few seconds before Sherlock heard the familiar sound of his brother’s footsteps on the hardwood floor. Not even waiting for his brother to properly appear in the room, he picked up his notebook and pen that was forgotten on the chair and clutched it to his chest as if he was using it as a shield.

 

“Nice to meet you Mandy,” he managed to say, before he ran out of the room, dashing past his brother who was standing in the kitchen with John. He barely got out a goodbye before he was standing outside on the pavement gasping for breath.

 

He left the door open to the Watson’s home, and he flinched when he heard the sounds of choked sobs coming from within. It was too late, he realized, to go back inside and say goodbye properly. Instead, he climbed into the car Mycroft arrived in and tried to act aloof as his brother eventually slid into the car and closed the door behind him.

 

It wasn’t until much later in the evening when Sherlock was alone in his bedroom, consulting his notebook that he realized to his horror that he didn’t even call her by her right name before his hasty retreat.

 

Something told him that that was something the “Old Sherlock” would do; the one who frequented drug dens and was high most of the time. He tossed his notebook to the side and pulled his duvet over his head, wishing the tightening of his chest and the pain pounding his head would just go away.


	5. Teaching Mathematics Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)

“Now Mr. Holmes, remember what I suggested last week? You should spend time with your friends because you need to get to know them again. You’ve been out of the hospital for two weeks now, and you have only met with your friends once. I encourage you to “hang out” with them. Next week, if you do as I ask, we’ll talk about you moving out of your brother’s home and back to your flat on Baker Street.”

 

Sherlock sat rigid on the sofa in his therapist’s office, one hand clutching his chest. During this session, they talked in-depth about the anxiety he was constantly feeling whenever he stepped out of his bedroom, and talking about it made Sherlock feel only a bit better. According to his rather large medical file, he had never had issues with anxiety before, but his neurologist thought that this was a development from his brain injury, and if he regained his memories after his brain was completely healed, the anxiety might go away.

 

“Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Great! Same time next week,” she said with a smile on her face. Sherlock nodded his head and stood up. She followed him from her rather large office and to the door, stopping to talk to the receptionist with Sherlock. He confirmed his appointment for the following week, and with a wave goodbye to the two women, he stepped out of the office and walked straight to the sleek black car waiting for him.

 

He climbed into the back without a word and removed his phone from his Belstaff pocket. He was surprised when two weeks prior, Mycroft had given him several suits and this large coat. When he wore the clothing, it was very comfortable, which was a surprise because he felt at home in his jeans and jumpers and didn’t realize he was missing his other clothing.

 

He toyed with his phone for a moment. Along with the clothes, Mycroft had given him a mobile phone, in case he needed to contact him or anyone else since he returned to work. After a few seconds, he opened his contacts and scrolled until he reached John Watson.

 

He was irritated that his hands were trembling as he started a text message. _‘Do you have plans this evening? Would you like to have dinner?’_ He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing. He added his initials at the end of the text, in case this was a different number than the one John had before his accident.

 

He didn’t get a response from his friend until he returned to his brother’s home. He was hanging up his coat and walking to the kitchen to make tea when his phone buzzed. _‘I’m free. Want me to text anyone else?’_

 

Even though the idea of trying to talk to more than one person at a time made him sick, he decided to listen to his doctor’s suggestions about “hanging out” with his friends. _‘You can text everyone.—SH’_

 

The prospect of actually leaving Mycroft’s home to eat a meal and visit his friends filled Sherlock with such dread that he abandoned his attempts of tea making and went straight to his bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him and crawled into bed, laying on his back and digging out his notebook from beneath his pillow.

 

He studied his carefully taken notes until he fell asleep, his notebook resting on his chest.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock squeezed his fists tightly and tried to school his features as he stared out the window. For the first time since he moved in with Mycroft, his brother was actually leaving for business, some kind of diplomatic event in Finland that required his attendance for four days.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was ready to be completely alone inside Mycroft’s huge home, and he knew he was going to struggle to fulfill his therapist’s expectations of “hanging out” with his friends without his brother’s guidance.

 

“It’ll only be four days, Sherlock.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You can ask John or Gregory to stay with you for the four days.”

 

“I’m not an invalid,” Sherlock snapped, clenching his fists tighter. “I don’t need a minder!”

 

Mycroft sighed and crossed his legs, but didn’t say anything else. After a moment, Sherlock looked away from the window. “Apologies,” he whispered. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his curls.

 

“You’re forgiven.”

 

Before Mycroft could say anything else, the black car pulled to a stop in front of Angelo’s. For half a second, Sherlock hesitated, and then he opened the door. “I will see you in four days, Mickey.”

 

“Try and have a good time, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head once and then stepped out of the black car. He stood uncertainly on the pavement, aware that his brother was watching him. He folded down the collar of his coat and then made his way to the restaurant that John insisted Sherlock would love.

 

The second Sherlock stepped inside, he was immediately in the arms of an older man he did not recognize. He was suddenly being kissed on the cheeks, patted on the head, and his coat was being pulled off of him all at the same time. He tried slapping away the hands, the air suddenly feeling thick and heavy, his chest heaving as he struggled to inhale, and then he heard John Watson say,

 

“Angelo! What did I _just_ explain to you?”

 

“That’s right, Doctor Watson! Sorry Sherlock! I forgot you…forgot!”

 

Sherlock tried to smile, but he felt a bit sick to his stomach. He felt a hand on his upper arm directing him to the back of the cozy Italian restaurant. John led him to a large round table, with people sitting around it. He managed to smile politely at the people he immediately recognized, Mary and Scarlett Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—

 

“Hudders!” he gasped, and the older woman stood to her feet, pressing her hands to her mouth. Obviously, she was a lot older than he remembered, especially as she limped a bit to him, but he still accepted her embrace as willingly as he accepted every other offering of affection since he got out of the hospital.

 

“Oh Sherlock,” she breathed, kissing his cheek and patting the top of his head. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been worried about you, and I wasn’t sure if you would remember me.”

 

Mrs. Hudson was the first person he recognized right off the bat, other than his parents and Mycroft. It was a welcome feeling, and Sherlock relished in the warmth that the older woman offered him. After a few moments, he pulled away from her embrace, smiling at her fondly. He had always liked this woman, and their relationship must have strengthened over the years since he first met her.

 

“Now have a seat, Sherlock. You’re only skin and bones.”

 

Everyone at the table laughed, and Sherlock felt a blush on his cheeks. He looked around the table, trying to see where he was supposed to sit, and his stomach dropped when he realized the only empty seat was between Molly Hooper and John Watson.

 

Molly Hooper was staring at the table, fiddling with a fork. Sherlock swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest. All he could think about was running out on her the first and last time he saw her, and calling her the wrong name. With abject terror, he moved around the table, carefully taking off his coat and placing it on the back of his chair. Then he slid into the seat and immediately picked up the water glass, feeling extremely parched.

 

After gulping down his water and snatching John’s cup to drink from, he realized everyone’s eyes were on him. The anxiety he felt at first texting John was returning full force. He shoved his trembling left hand out of sight, clutching his knee tightly as everyone began talking to him at once. He heard someone, possibly John, say that they already ordered for him. Then he thought he heard someone ask him about the Work ( _what is the Work?_ ) but that was quickly drowned out by the sound of Scarlett saying something in excitement and knocking over a water glass.

 

While most of the table was distracted with cleaning up the spilt water, Sherlock wanted to get up from the table and go for a walk, preferably back to Mycroft’s and to his bedroom. His therapist was absolutely wrong about suggesting he “hang out” with his friends.

 

Suddenly, he felt a cool hand encircle his left wrist. He turned slowly to look at Molly as she smiled at him, her cool fingers soothing his overheated skin. “Take a deep breath,” she whispered, and somehow Sherlock managed to do so, the air not quite feeling like smog. “Everyone is just excited to see you. Give them a few minutes, and they’ll settle down.” Her thumb stroked his wrist soothingly. “I know all the talking is overwhelming, but it’ll calm down soon.”

 

Sherlock managed to nod his head, already feeling a bit calmer as he focused on the soft spoken woman beside him. He could feel John’s eyes on him, and he assumed that his best friend heard what Molly said, but he ignored him in favor of taking slow and even breaths until his anxiety diminished.

 

For the rest of the evening, Molly kept her hand wrapped around his wrist, soothingly.

 

\-----

 

Two days after the rather stressful but successful dinner with his friends, he received a text from Greg Lestrade while he was eating his cereal, requesting lunch. Sherlock responded promptly before finishing his breakfast and jumping into the shower. Afterwards, he sat down in Mycroft’s study with his notebook, reviewing the information he had on Greg. Even though he just had dinner with him two days ago, a lot of the conversation revolved around him and he didn’t gather much new data about his peers.

 

He did learn that Scarlett did not like peas and would spit them out any time her mother or father tried to feed them to her. Surprisingly, the sight made him laugh heartily. Scarlett had definitely grown on him during their brief interactions.

 

He already had a series of questions to ask Greg, like whether he had children or not, if he was married or in a long term relationship with someone, what working with him was like, and whether or not he got along with said wife/husband/partner.

 

When it was time for him to leave, he exchanged his dressing gown for his long coat, double checked to make sure he had keys, his wallet, and money, and then he stepped outside. Mycroft insisted that he use his car service, so he didn’t have to wait for or hail a cab. Instead, he climbed into the back of the black car, gave his driver the address to the pub he was meeting Lestrade, and fiddled with his notebook nervously for the rest of the ride.

 

He was certain that he would hate the pub, but he did say he would make the attempt to go to one, and with it only being one friend instead of all his friends, the situation should be less stressful, in theory.

 

When the car stopped, Sherlock informed the driver that he would be taking a cab back to his brother’s home, so he wouldn’t have to wait for him. Then he got out and walked into the pub.

 

It was easy for him to spot Greg in a booth in a corner of the pub, far away from the television and bar. It was quieter in this part of the establishment, which Sherlock was thankful for. He smiled at him tightly and crossed the room, removing his leather gloves and sliding into his seat.

 

“Afternoon,” Greg said.

 

“Afternoon,” Sherlock responded, flipping open his notebook.

 

“Got questions for me?”

 

“Just a few, if that’s alright.” He hesitated for a moment before picking up his pen and looking up at Greg.

Sherlock was surprised by how bright Greg’s smile was, the grin warming him and setting him at ease. “It’s alright with me.”

 

Before Sherlock could ask his first question, a woman approached the table, asking them for their drink and food orders. Sherlock wasn’t particularly hungry, so he just ordered chips and water, while Greg ordered fish and chips, and water.

 

“I thought you would be having a beer,” Sherlock said, the moment the woman walked away. “My medication doesn’t allow me to drink alcohol, but that doesn’t mean you have to abstain as well.”

 

“One,” Greg began, ticking off on his fingers, “I drove here, so I have to be entirely sober to get behind the wheel. Two, I’m on the clock. Three, in case we have to make a hasty retreat, I would prefer to have my wits about me.”

 

“A hasty retreat?” Sherlock looked around the mostly empty pub. “Are you expecting trouble?”

 

“No, but you never know nowadays.” Greg took a sip of his water and then pointed at Sherlock’s open notebook. “Ask away, Sherlock.”

 

“Right.” Sherlock easily began asking his questions and diligently writing down Greg’s responses. He was surprised to learn that he didn’t have children and was recently divorced (nearly five years beforehand). Greg seemed like the kind of man to have children by now, but Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable asking why he didn’t have children (something in the back of his mind told him that might be insensitive).

 

Sherlock found it easy to continue chatting while he munched on his chips, wiping the grease on a napkin in his lap. Greg was very kind and listened very well, so Sherlock felt more comfortable explaining his newfound anxiety in social situations. He knew he had never been diagnosed with anything and his neurologist believed it was symptoms from his traumatic brain injury, but he wasn’t surprised to learn that he never did well in large groups; Greg explained John’s birthday party where he made a video instead of showing up, and a few of the parties they had attended or thrown and Sherlock unusual behavior.

 

It was easy to see that he always had a bit of anxiety, but it had grown exponentially since the accident.

 

Towards the end of lunch, Greg received a text. “It’s work.” Sherlock watched as Greg hesitated a moment before cocking his head to the side. “Do you have anything going on today?”

 

“No.”

 

“You should come with me; see how you handle the Work.”

 

“Which reminds me,” Sherlock said, standing up and putting his coat on. He dropped a few bills on the table to cover his lunch. “What is the Work?”

 

Greg laughed and led the way out of the pub. “I’ll explain in the car.”

 

\-----

 

“I don’t think dead bodies alarm me,” Sherlock said, pausing outside the double doors. “I’m a graduate chemist after all, I’m very knowledgeable.”

 

“Great! If you feel uneasy though, you don’t have to say anything. You can step back or leave the room, we won’t mind.”

 

Sherlock was left to wonder who the “we” was in this situation, whether Greg meant the dead victim or another person in the morgue. Regardless, he followed Greg into the room, nearly freezing at the sight of Molly Hooper standing with goggles protecting her eyes and a bone saw in her hand. She looked up at the sound of the doors closing and smiled at Greg and Sherlock, waving them over.

 

Once again, Sherlock suddenly felt parched. He tried licking his lips, but that didn’t seem to help. A blush crept up his neck and soon covered his cheeks. His palms began to sweat as he closed the distance between himself and Molly, and he seemed to forget the English language.

 

Evidently, he wasn’t going to have any trouble not saying anything.

 

He heard Greg say that they were just testing out his ability to be in the room as a dead body and to not expect much talk from him, which he was grateful.

 

He watched and listened as Molly pointed at various things about the body, saying a few things didn’t add up here and there. Greg listened intently, and soon the two began bouncing ideas off of each other, leaving Sherlock in the back of the morgue, feeling a bit left out.

 

_I used to do this for a living. I can do it now._ He took a hesitant step forward, and Molly turned to him. “Something wrong, Sherlock?”

 

“Uhhh, no. No, no. Nothing. No.” He coughed into his hand and hoped that the blood boiling beneath his skin and his pounding pulse went unnoticed.

 

Both Greg and Molly stared at him for several long seconds, and then Greg, either taking pity on Sherlock or wanting to get back to work, asked Molly another question about the body. Once she was sufficiently engaged in the conversation again, Sherlock returned his attention to the dead body.

 

The fingernails were a bit off colored. They were yellow, but according to Molly’s brief review of the body, his liver was in working order. He peered closer at the hand and noticed a bit of yellow paint on his thumb nail.

 

Except it wasn’t paint. It was nail varnish.

 

“He was poisoned,” Sherlock said, pausing to clear his throat. Molly and Greg stared at him, and Sherlock pointed to the hand. “His fingernails were recently painted yellow, and then the varnish was removed from all the fingers except the thumb. If you look closely, you can see a pinprick beneath the nail. Take a sample of the varnish, and you’ll find traces of the poison. Then you should check his wife’s alibi again and find out when she took out an insurance policy on her husband.”

 

He took a heaving breath at the end of his rather brazen guesses and then took a step back from the body.

 

Molly and Greg were staring at him, both of their mouths agape. “Did I do something wrong? I apologize, I know forensic pathology is not my area but—”

 

“You’re brilliant!” Molly said, beaming at him proudly before ripping off her gloves and dashing to the sink to wash her hands.

 

“Haven’t heard a deduction in weeks! Nice to hear one that good!”

 

“Deduction?”

 

“Remember the Work? It’s what you do! Does any of this feel familiar to you?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I just saw and put things together in my head. Actually,” he took a few stumbling steps backwards until he was leaning against the freezers. “Thinking like that actually hurt my head. I need to sit.”

 

“Right.” Greg moved beside him, gripping him firmly by the elbow. “Molly, can we commandeer your office for a bit?”

 

“Of course. I have a few bottles of water in there. Take whatever you need.”

 

As Greg led Sherlock out of the morgue, already on the phone with John, Sherlock couldn’t help but think about the way Molly smiled at him and told him he was brilliant.

 

It almost made the pounding in his skull less painful.


	6. Of One Heart, One Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after meeting his "new" friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to update! But in my defense, I moved from Ohio to Texas (that's across the United States if you're not from here!!), got a teaching job, and have been running nonstop since July! But I got some inspiration to finally finish this chapter, and here it is! Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and being so kind! I really appreciate it! :) And now, the newest chapter!

After three weeks of living with Mycroft, Sherlock was finally allowed to “return” to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic to have him back, and he was a bit happy to be out of his brother’s hair; the man was very busy, and yet had done his utmost to make sure he was comfortable, safe, and happy. Mycroft deserved a break, and a medal.

 

The first time he stepped into the flat, he was nearly overwhelmed with all sensory information. There were a lot of smells, a lot of different items to take in, and new sounds, all different from Mycroft’s home. The newness of it all immediately made his brain hurt, but he tried to play it off as he made a slow circuit around the living room, John and Mrs. Hudson watching him from the doorway.

 

When he felt his knees begin to buckle, he decided he needed to have a seat. He collapsed into a sort of atrocious looking red chair with a blanket thrown over the back, and he heard murmuring behind him. He turned his head slowly to his best friend and land lady standing in the doorway. “Is this chair not okay?” he asked. “Have I done experiments on it or something?”

 

John’s mouth twitched upwards slightly and he shook his head. “You usually sit in that chair,” he said, pointing to the leather chair across from Sherlock. “That’s my chair.”

 

“Oh. Because you live here.” Sherlock struggled to his feet, took a few small steps, and then eased himself into the leather seat.

 

It was infinitely more comfortable than the other chair.

 

“Used to live here. I live with Mary and Scarlett now,” John reminded gently. He crossed the room and sat down in his chair.

 

“Right, right. I’ve been to your home a few times.” Sherlock reached into his Belstaff pocket and removed his little black notebook and pen. He made note that the atrocious chair was John’s, and he should avoid sitting in it at all costs.

 

Sherlock spent most of the day trying to hide the fact that his headache was nearly debilitating; part of him wanted to show his friend and landlady that he was perfectly fine on his own, and another part of him knew that if he wasn’t feeling well, Greg and John wouldn’t allow him to work the next day.

 

Every day since Sherlock’s impromptu lunch with Greg, John had taken Sherlock to the Yard for the Work. Sherlock mostly puttered around Greg’s office, looking through cold cases about robberies, but once he was allowed to accompany a sergeant named Sally Donovan on a call to a home invasion, which was a bit invigorating for Sherlock, because he was able to “deduce” the crime scene and solve the case in a matter of minutes.

 

He was actually alarmed that he was able to do so so quickly. When he tried to remember a time when he did work like this, his memories were hazy from drug use.

 

He could only imagine what it must feel like to solve a case about murder!

 

By the time dinner came and passed, Sherlock was ready for bed and he knew John was missing his wife and daughter. After promising that he wouldn’t hesitate to call if he got sick or needed someone in the middle of the night, John finally left, leaving Sherlock alone in 221 B Baker Street for the first time.

 

At first, he wanted to go exploring, but his brain politely reminded him that he had done enough that day by throbbing painfully, so instead, he got ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and changed into his pajamas. Then he walked downstairs to say goodnight to Mrs. Hudson, who hugged him tightly with a wide smile on her face and teary eyes, and then he finally adjourned for the evening in his bedroom.

 

He chose to leave the light off, just because he thought that he might get distracted by something in his bedroom. He stumbled towards his bed, pulled back the duvet, and crawled into bed. He at first laid flat on his back, but wasn’t very comfortable. He then rolled to his side, grasping the pillow beside him and crushing it against his face.

 

He inhaled deeply once, startled to smell something a bit florally, lemons, and a hint of vanilla. This was the first time he smelled anything like it in the entire flat.

 

He took a few more deep breaths, comforted by the smell, and closed his eyes. He drifted off to sleep rather easily.

 

\-----

 

Time passed by rather eventfully for Sherlock. With his memory still not recovered after three months, Sherlock spent a lot of time focusing on the Work. His therapist suggested that he stick to cold cases on robberies and home invasions for the first few weeks as he regained his footing, but that quickly turned into Sherlock consulting on murder cases.

 

John thought it would be better for him to work with Greg rather than take on private cases, since his anxiety issues had yet to resolve, and Sherlock agreed. Just the idea of inviting strangers into his home made his hands shake and his stomach twist into knots.

 

And now that he was working with Greg on his more active cases, he was inevitably spending more and more time at St. Bart’s hospital, where Molly Hooper worked.

 

At first, Sherlock tried to limit their interactions, mostly because when he was near her, he forgot how to speak or think. But that idea was quickly squashed when he realized Molly was one of the main pathologists Scotland Yard consulted for their cases.

 

Sherlock learned that not only was Molly very pretty, she was also very smart and very good at her job. Since he could hardly speak around her, he often observed her working either in the morgue or the lab, and he was flabbergasted by how dedicated she was to her job.

 

When he did try to speak to her, either about the case they were working on together or about her personal life, he inevitably knocked something over, broke glassware, or tripped over his words so much that he had to excuse himself and return to whatever sample he was studying or resume examining the body.

 

Once, Sherlock had tried to ask Molly how her day was, but he could hardly get anything out and the Erlenmeyer flask he had been clutching in his sweaty hands slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor, spilling 500ml of distilled water all over their feet.

 

All Sherlock managed do was stutter out an apology and dash to the spill station in the corner of the lab, grabbing whatever he thought he needed to clean up the mess. When he returned, the intern who had also been working in the lab was giggling and calling him “cute”.

 

When he glanced up at Molly, her mouth was twisted into a smile, but her eyes looked sad.

 

\-----

One early morning, well before the sun was up, Sherlock found himself very quietly unlocking the front door to the Watson’s home and letting himself inside. It was absolutely quiet, which was exactly what he needed at the moment. The restaurant (which name was forgotten by Sherlock) that was beside 221B Baker Street was getting renovations, and the sound of construction was getting to him. It was as if every nerve in his body was exposed at the moment, and he just needed somewhere quiet to think and for his dosage of paracetamol to kick in for his never ending headache.

 

He slipped off his shoes at the door and quietly walked to the sitting room, easing himself into a chair. Before he knew it, his chin was resting on his chest, and his eyes were closing.

 

Sherlock slept curled up in the chair until he heard a soft voice whisper, “Sherlock? Everything alright?”

 

His eyes fluttered open, and sunlight was filtering through the window behind him. He blinked a few times and looked around the room before his eyes settled on John, who was in his pajamas and his robe tied tightly around him. In one hand he had the newspaper, and in the other he was carrying tea. He still looked half asleep, but his face was scrunched in concern.

 

“My head hurts. Needed quiet.”

 

“Still doing construction at Speedy’s, then?” John eased himself onto the sofa, dropping the paper beside him and cradling his tea in his hands.

 

“The restaurant…yes. Construction. At all hours.” Sherlock rubbed his eyes and then stretched his arms high above his head. After a few long seconds of stretching, he dropped back into his seat, cradling his head in his hand. He listened as John sipped at his tea, but was surprised when he didn’t hear the rustling of the paper. When he opened his eyes again, John was staring at him.

 

“Something on your mind? Your head hurts more when you’re thinking. And you’ve been cradling your head as if you have the worst migraine, which granted, is probably the truth.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly. “I have been thinking quite a bit lately. And my paracetamol hasn’t kicked in yet, so this headache feels worse than the others.”

 

“I’ve got something a bit stronger, if you want it?” John offered, knowing Sherlock was going to decline. His friend was adamant about never using narcotics again, which was admirable, really, but it also cost him a lot of unnecessary pain.

 

“No thank you.”

 

“Right, well, I’m making a fry-up, and Mary and Scarlett will be up soon. Join me in the kitchen?”

 

Sherlock had no other choice but to follow John. He very carefully pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. He was thankful when John began pulling out pans and things from the fridge, very gently placing them on the cooker and bench. With John working quietly, it gave Sherlock a few more moments of peace before the rest of the household woke up.

 

“So what has been on your mind lately?” John asked, dropping a few slices of bacon into the hot pan.

 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and then stared down at the worn table top. “There’s a woman…”

 

“A woman, or _THE_ woman?”

 

Sherlock glanced up to see John staring at him, one hand on his hip and the other squeezing the handle of his spatula.

 

“She’s the woman on my mind,” Sherlock said, pausing for a moment as John exhaled and turned back to prod at his bacon. That was an odd reaction, and he almost reached for his notebook to write it down. Then he shook his head slowly and whispered, “Molly.” He took a breath and saw John freeze. Before he could stop himself, he just began babbling, “Doctor Molly. Hooper. Doctor Hooper. Doctor Molly Hooper. She works at Bart’s. With the hair? You know, the hair? Long brown hair, always braided or pulled up.” His hands moved without his knowledge, drawing out what he was trying to explain. “She’s young, younger than all of her counterparts. Very smart. Small nose. Brown eyes. Small mouth, but she says the nicest things to me, always. Sometimes she’s sad when she looks at me and thinks I can’t see, but I can’t—I don’t understand _why_? Doctor Hooper. That Doctor Hooper. Molly Hooper.” He took a heaving breath and then rested his pounding head on the table.

 

John exhaled again and then said, “Yes. I know Molly Hooper. We are very good friends.”

 

Sherlock hummed in response and peaked at John. He already turned off the cooker and abandoned his breakfast making, instead watching Sherlock carefully. “What about Molly Hooper?” he encouraged after a moment of silence.

 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for a moment before he hid his face again. He could feel all the blood rushing to his face, and he knew that if he looked up again, he’d resemble a tomato. “C’mon Sherlock,” John said, poking at his shoulder.

 

After another moment, Sherlock reluctantly sat up and ran his fingers through his curls. “I would like to ask her for coffee or dinner. Is that a good idea? Is she—is she dating anyone? Does she date? Would she—Do you think she’d like to…date me?”

 

The gentle smile that graced John’s features was all the answer he needed. But he waited patiently for his response.

 

“I think that’s a brilliant idea, mate.”


	7. Real or Imagined?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally has the courage to do what he wants to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES FOR TAKING ABOUT A YEAR TO UPDATE. The last time I updated this fic, I got a new teaching job in Texas after moving 1,200 miles away from my family. And it's been one heck of an exhausting year! But things have settled, I got a new job (which is loads better than my old one) and I've decided I NEED to finish this fic before the next school year starts at the end of August. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! :)

“Sometimes I watch you work and when you’re not looking—no! That sounds weird.”

 

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the mirror hanging over his fireplace. Every few minutes he would pause, ruffle his curls, and stare at his reflection before trying to say something witty and clever to ask Molly Hooper out on a date.

 

So far he had been extremely unsuccessful, both in practice and performance, and he spent nearly every waking moment thinking about his failed attempts. “I wish she wasn’t so pretty and smart!” he shouted suddenly, glaring at his reflection. “And kind! And really good at her job! Maybe then I wouldn’t even _like_ her!”

 

“Hoo-hoo, Sherlock? Do you have a visitor?”

 

“No Hudders,” Sherlock said, turning dejectedly away from his mirror and dropping down into his seat. “I don’t have a visitor.”

 

“Well I heard all that shouting and you haven’t stopped moving since you woke up this morning!” Mrs. Hudson walked into 221B with a tea tray. “Have some tea and a sandwich. It’ll make you feel better.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel better.”

 

“You still have that headache?”

 

Sherlock sighed. Yes, he still had the headache, but he was so accustomed to the pain that it really didn’t bother him anymore. His doctors kept encouraging him to take it easy even though it had been months and not much memory returned other than his relationship with Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. What was causing him the most problem now was his inability to look Molly Hooper in the eye and ask her for coffee.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Sorry! Yes, headaches. They just won’t go away.”

 

\-----

 

A week later, Sherlock finally felt like he had not only the energy, but the courage to go to St. Bart’s and ask Molly out for coffee. Earlier in the week, he met her in the lab while working with Lestrade and successfully asked her about her day and her evening from the night before with minimal stuttering but a few aborted attempts at prolonged eye contact. Right when he thought he could get out the words, “Would you like to have a coffee with me?”, he had to take a break because the pain in his head started to quadruple and he needed to have a seat.

 

He was beginning to think that his headaches were worse when he was feeling anxious. He made note in his notebook to work on his anxiety and to talk to his therapist about it.

 

But when Sherlock changed out of his pajamas and into one of the many suits he had in his closet, donning a handsome purple shirt with black slacks and a black jacket, John and Mary Watson burst into his flat. When Sherlock told them that he was planning on finally going to the hospital and asking Molly out, they refused to move from the doorway and gave excuses.

 

For the first time that Sherlock could remember, he was losing his patience.

 

“Mate, I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go to Bart’s today.”

 

“Why? Why is everyone trying to keep me from the hospital? Mycroft refused to send a driver. Greg wanted to work a burglary case that an infant could solve, and even Mrs. Hudson tried dragging me to lunch with the neighbor—I forget her name. Turner? I think. And now you and Mary are literally blocking the doorway out of my flat and refusing to let me out. I am a grown man, and even though I’m suffering from a traumatic brain injury does not mean you can keep me trapped in my flat! Now please excuse me, and _let me go_!”

 

Sherlock stood his ground and glared at his friends until Mary put a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, we can’t keep him from her.”

 

“I know, but not today!”

 

Sherlock watched as John and Mary stared at each other, and finally John deflated, shuffling away from the door. “Go ahead.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Without looking back, Sherlock marched down the stairs and out of his flat. He could hear John and Mary walking down the steps and meeting with Mrs. Hudson, and even though he was curious as to why all of his friends and even his brother were fighting him, he chose not to listen and instead make his way to what he affectionately started calling his “home away from home”, St. Bart’s.

 

He managed to get a cab rather easily, and he spent the entire ride rehearsing their conversation. He had it all written down in his notebook, but he had gone over it so many times that it was now memorized.

 

_-Greet Molly._  
-Ask her about her day.  
-If she asks about my day, tell her about it.  
-Ask her about her current workload.  
-If she asks about my work, which she will because she is very polite and kind, tell her about the case Greg just closed about a dead woman’s missing cats. Molly likes cats, I think.  
-Ask Molly to coffee. If she doesn’t like coffee, tea. If she doesn’t like tea, as a last resort, dinner. Dinner with Angelo. Not with Angelo, but at Angelo’s.  
-If Molly says yes, remember to thank her and smile. Do not panic.  
-If Molly says no, don’t run away. Apologize for bothering her. Do not panic.  
-If you panic, your headache will erupt and you might faint, which would be embarrassing.

 

When the cab stopped outside of St. Bart’s, Sherlock gave the cabbie money and jumped out of the vehicle. He smoothed his sweating palms on his long coat and then shoved his hands in his pockets. Normally at this time if Molly wasn’t working on an autopsy, she would be in the lab. So Sherlock, with his courage fading and his heart pounding and his hands sweating and his mouth suddenly dry, made his way to the lab.

 

Just as he was expecting, Molly was in the lab. He stared at her for a few moments, watching as she scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes at a file in her hands— _Must be lab results she wasn’t expecting. She’s busy. I should go. Maybe next time. Tomorrow. Or never. Never sounds great. Because I’m a coward with a broken brain and—_

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Bugger,” he breathed, blinking rapidly when he saw Molly staring at him concerned.

 

Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the room, but didn’t make it all the way inside before he blurted out, “Coffee or tea or dinner?”

 

Molly just stared at him and blinked a few times and Sherlock took the time to take a heaving breath to ask her again, but coherently, then he slammed his mouth closed, wincing as his teeth clacked together when he took in her appearance.

 

Normally Molly always looked put together while at Bart’s.

 

But today was different. It was her face that was different. Paler. Red rimmed eyes. Red shiny nose, as if she had been… _Christ. This is why no one wanted me to come to Bart’s. Molly’s having a bad day and I’ve just made it worse. She doesn’t want to date me! And I’ve gone and made things awkward. Maybe I can play this off as a joke…_

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock jumped backwards, slamming the door closed. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel his blood rushing in his ears; he felt very sick. “Is everything okay?” Molly’s voice floated above him as if he was suddenly under water. He shook his head in response to her question and then he was sliding down to the floor, his back still pressed against the door.

 

_Great! I’m panicking and I’m about to pass out. How embarrassing! Why am I so broken?_

 

“Oh Sherlock! Please don’t say things like that!”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes in horror— _when did they close?_ —and stared at Molly, his gut churning as he realized he was thinking out loud.

 

Molly was kneeling in front of him, grasping his hand tightly in hers. “Can you breathe with me?”

 

And for a few minutes, Sherlock and Molly sat on the floor together, breathing, with Molly clutching Sherlock’s hand the entire time. He thought he was going to die of embarrassment, but by the time his breathing evened out and the panic and anxiety began to dissipate, he realized Molly wasn’t looking at him with pity, only kindness and understanding. _You are a Saint_. “What do you need?”

 

Sherlock squinted, his vision blurring from the pain in his head. “You.”

 

He was shocked when Molly’s eyes scrunched up and she let out a sob, her grip on his hand wavering.   He didn’t know what to do, or what he did to cause this reaction from her, but he squeezed her hand, hoping that was enough.

 

Molly hastily wiped at her eyes with her free hand and took several deep breaths. “Okay. Okay.” It was as if she was talking to herself and not him. “Sherlock,” she whispered, sniffling. “What do you need right now?”

 

“Water,” he whispered.

 

“And?”

 

“Paracetamol. And a dark room.”

 

Slowly, Molly helped Sherlock off the floor. With one of his hands shielding his eyes, he wrapped his other hand around Molly’s arm as she guided him from the lab and down to her office. Sherlock kept his eyes closed as Molly unlocked her door and opened it. She guided him to the couch, and he sat down slowly. He listened as Molly shut the door and then went to her desk. He could hear her opening a medicine bottle and shaking out a few pills into her hand. Then she crossed the room and she sat down beside him.

 

“Here, Sherlock.”

 

He opened his eyes and blinked in the relative darkness, just barely making out Molly as she held her hand out to him. He took the three small pills and tossed them into his mouth, taking the water Molly offered him and swallowing them down. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.

 

Paracetamol only ever took the edge off his headache. He wished the medicine would take the pain away completely.

 

Sherlock took this time to focus on his breathing and trying to get his nerves under control. With the worst of his attack already passed, he felt confident enough that he could still ask Molly for coffee. But her answer to his question might not be something he wants to hear. Because honestly, who would want to date a wreck of a man like him?

 

Sherlock jumped when he felt weight on the sofa shift as Molly stood up. He opened his eyes and reached for her, blinking against the darkness. “Molly, wait!” he whispered.

 

“I thought you were asleep!” she said, a hint of a giggle in her voice. “I was just going to get the blanket from my desk drawer. I’ll be right back.”

 

“No…” Sherlock said, gripping her hand a bit tighter. “Please, just wait a moment?”

 

“Is everything alright?” When Molly settled beside him again, he took one huge breath, exhaled loudly, and then said very calmly and slowly, just like his therapist encouraged him to do, “Would you like to eat with me?”

 

“As in a date?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, but only after he nodded his head in the darkness and realized Molly probably couldn’t see. His hands were already sweating, and he felt like his heart was trying to escape from his chest. He couldn’t tell if his vision was going blurry, but he did feel dizzy.

 

“When? Tonight?”

 

It was like he was underwater. It took him a few seconds to understand what she said, and then he choked out, “Yes!”

 

There was silence, and it was deafening. Sherlock wanted to tear his hands out of her grasp and run from the dark room, never to return to the hospital again. He blinked rapidly as Molly continued to sit in silence for what felt like an agonizingly long time.

 

“Tonight’s not good for me, sorry,” she finally said, and Sherlock felt like weeping _. I was right! A woman of Molly’s caliber deserves someone better than me and if_ — “And I can’t do Friday lunch or dinner either. Actually, any time this weekend. I have a bit of a holiday I forgot I scheduled. But next week is really good for me! I’m working days, so any evening, I’ll probably be free.”

 

How Molly had a holiday coming up that she forgot about, Sherlock didn’t understand. But he wasn’t going to think on it any longer, because Molly Hooper agreed to have a meal with him! As a date!

 

“Whatever works best for you? You can text me. I think you have my number?” Sherlock flopped back, resting his head on the back of the couch. The tension that he had been holding in his entire body made it ache and he felt like he could sleep for days.

 

“I can text you,” Molly said, and Sherlock felt her stand up. “Why don’t you lay down and give your head a bit of rest?” She stepped away for only a moment, and when she returned, she carefully covered him with a blanket, and Sherlock noticed her hands were trembling. “I’ll be in the morgue or the lab for the rest of my shift if you need me.”

 

Bells and alarms were ringing in his head because it definitely sounded like Molly was crying, just like earlier in the lab. Before he could even begin to utter a sentence, the door to her office opened. Sherlock squinted in the bright light and blinked a few times until the image of John and Mary standing at the doorway became clear.

 

“Molly?” Mary whispered, and just like that, Molly was running from the office and into the hallway. The last glimpse Sherlock saw of Molly was her in Mary’s arms, crying before John stepped into the room and gently shut the door.

 

“Sorry about that. I know how sensitive you are to light and sound during your headaches.”

 

“What’s wrong with Molly?”

 

There was silence for a few moments, and then John slowly closed the distance between them, perching on the very edge of the sofa. “Molly has had a bit of a day, and Mary and I were coming in to try and cheer her up. A few nasty autopsies,” he added at the very end of his explanation. “Work gets the best of us sometimes.”

 

“But I’ve never seen her so affected by her work.”

 

John was quiet for a moment, and then he sighed. Sherlock could imagine his face scrunched up in thought. “It’s been especially hard for Molly, because today is an anniversary for her and someone she recently lost. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

 

“Oh…” Sherlock whispered.

 

“They were together three years today. It’s sad, but she’s trying to move on the best she can.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock didn’t much feel like sharing his good news with his friend. What was the most courageous thing he’s done since his release from the hospital now made Sherlock feel like rubbish. Did Molly even really want to go out with him? Or was she just trying to appease him so he would leave her alone during her trying time?

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he was thinking, but he jumped when he felt John tap his shoulder. “Come on. You need to rest on a proper bed. The spare room at mine is ready. And Mary and I made a steak and mushroom pie last night. We can reheat that for you for lunch later.”

 

Sherlock blinked in the darkness for a moment and then he sighed. “Okay.” He didn’t have much choice; it was very hard for Sherlock to turn John Watson and his family down, even if he wasn’t feeling the best. Hopefully submersing himself in all the fun little things toddlers do and eating something will make him feel better. But as he struggled to his feet, still feeling a bit dizzy and latching on to John’s arm, he knew there wasn’t going to be much to cheer him up.

 

 


	8. The Prize of One’s Life…the Prize of One’s Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

The text message didn’t come until early in the morning on Wednesday. Sherlock was just falling asleep after waking up to use the loo when he heard his phone vibrate against the table. He turned on his bedside lamp and then entered the password on his phone. His eyes widened at the text.

 

_‘Sorry it’s early, but maybe we can have dinner tonight? I’m off really early because I’m covering half of someone’s shift. Just let me know! —Molly Hooper’_

 

It was halfway through the week and Sherlock had given up all thoughts of dating Molly Hooper; obviously she was still very much in love with whoever she lost and she wasn’t able to spare time for him. And that was understandable, at least that’s what Sherlock told himself.

 

But it looks like he’s been wrong this whole time.

 

His thumbs were trembling as he replied to her text message, and then he slid deeper into his bed, clutching his phone tightly as he waited for her response.

 

\-----

 

As first dates go, Sherlock was expecting the world to end when nearly the exact opposite happened. He was clumsier than usual, stuttered like a fool and had a headache to rival all headaches, but Molly looked lovely and was very warm and kind and he learned she had a morbid sense of humor that had him giggling like a child.

 

They ate at Angelo’s, and the restaurant was surprisingly empty except for Angelo himself, who was oddly teary-eyed and hugged Molly for quite a long time. But maybe Angelo knew of her recent loss. Maybe Angelo knew Molly better than Sherlock thought.

 

He made a note in his notebook to ask Molly about it later.

 

After dinner they went on a walk, hands brushing together and Sherlock blushing all the while. Slowly but surely, Molly managed to coax Sherlock to answer a few questions even though he was feeling more painfully shy now than he did during the entire dinner.

 

But just as he suspected, Molly was the vision of perfection because once she caught on that he really didn’t want to talk, she started talking about her tabby Toby. Toby was a mischievous little thing, Sherlock decided, and when they stopped in front of a nondescript little block of flats and Molly announced that this was her, she invited Sherlock up.

 

Molly offered to make tea, leaving Sherlock right in front of the door. He hardly took two steps forward before he heard something that could only be described as wailing and looked down to see a cat running full speed at him. He stood stock still as the cat wound itself around his legs and nearly crawled up them.

 

“Toby, no! Sorry! He’s never like this—”

 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock murmured, kneeling down to scoop Toby into his arms, disregarding the fur that was left on his trousers and coat. “I like animals.” Toby yowled and rubbed his face against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock patted him and stepped slowly into the flat, making his way to an eclectic living room, colors and patterns mashing together.

 

He liked it. It was warm and…reminded him of Molly.

 

When the tea was done brewing, Molly joined Sherlock on the sofa. They spent the rest of the evening sipping their tea and playing with Toby, and rather than being mischievous, Toby was nothing but affectionate, begging Sherlock for attention.

 

Sherlock quietly asked if this was what Toby was like all the time. Molly just smiled (one of those sad smiles that made Sherlock’s heart clench rather painfully) and said, “I think you just remind him of someone we used to know.”

 

_Oh. The person Molly lost recently. Their anniversary had been last week! How can I be such an idiot_? Before he could apologize— _am I supposed to apologize? Am I supposed to even know that Molly lost someone she cared for deeply? Someone she was in a relationship with for at least three years?_ —Toby gave up all pretenses of playing and made himself comfortable in his lap. Molly giggled and shook her head.

 

“It looks like you’re stuck here for a bit. Want to watch a film? I have your favorites.”

 

“My favorites? How do you know my favorites?” Sherlock looked up from the purring tabby and stared at Molly for a moment. The sad smile reappeared, along with a bit of a blush. It was pretty on her pale cheeks.

 

“Oh, you know. John just mentioned, and I happened to have them. If you don’t want to watch—”

 

“No! No…uhhh…like you said. Looks like I’m here for a while, what with Toby and all…but pick whatever you want to watch!”

 

Sherlock fell asleep towards the end of the film, and Molly woke him up gently, letting him know Mycroft sent a car and it was waiting for him downstairs. After brushing off most of the cat hair and scratching Toby affectionately beneath the chin, Sherlock made his way to her door, and Molly followed behind him.

 

“I had a really good time tonight,” Molly said.

 

“I did too.”

 

“We should do this again soon.”

 

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement, suddenly unable to keep his eyes on Molly. He felt his cheeks and neck burning and knew that the blush was probably spreading to his ears. “I’ll text you?”

 

“Sounds great! Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock wavered for just a moment in the open doorway. Then he finally looked up and smiled. “Goodnight, Molly.”

 

\-----

 

Three dates in, and Sherlock was feeling a lot less like a fool. His stutter was all but gone and he managed to not just listen to Molly talk about her day but he shared some stories of his cases with Greg and John, the ones he didn’t need to be at St. Bart’s to consult on.

 

And around the time they had their third date, something miraculous happened.

 

His headache started to go away. The one thing that had been plaguing him since the moment he woke up in the hospital was finally receding. At first Sherlock didn’t notice, just went about his life as he usually did, and then the first time he made a brilliant deduction with John and Greg, instead of immediately needing to have a lie down in a dark room, he went about and solved the case. His doctors considered this progress and they finally started encouraging Sherlock to try and access his Mind Palace. After months and months and months relying on his little notebook to help him remember things, the idea of being able to access his Mind Palace was invigorating. Without the headaches stopping him he could maybe recover some of his memories from the last ten years.

 

From that point on, Sherlock realized that the constant pain was gone and with that came a sense of freedom he thought he would never experience again.

 

\-----

 

Eight dates in, and everything was ruined.

 

They met for breakfast at a little place John and Mary suggested. Breakfast went well, and the food was delicious. Conversation was flowing and Molly looked like she was having a good time. She looked well rested and nice in her comfortable clothes that she usually wore to Bart’s. She was wearing an endearing cardigan with cherries on it, and Sherlock was just a bit embarrassed to admit that he wanted to know what she was wearing beneath the buttoned up article of clothing.

 

And then Sherlock walked Molly home. She had a shift that afternoon at the hospital, and she had about two hours before she needed to get on the tube. Sherlock was hoping that maybe she would invite him up for a bit of tea so he could spend just a little bit of extra time with her.

 

Being terribly shy did have its drawbacks, this being one of them.

 

Molly walked up two steps and turned around to look at Sherlock. For the first time ever, at least to Sherlock, they were almost the same height. He was still a few centimeters taller than her, but what were a few centimeters between friends?

 

But then this is where Sherlock was adamant that he got stupid. Glancing between her eyes and lips, he leaned in and hesitated for just a second before pressing his lips against hers and kissing her.

 

As first kisses go, it was marvelous.

 

And then she put a hand on his chest and pushed him away just slightly.

 

He opened his eyes and blinked at Molly rapidly, horrified to see her eyes scrunching up and her face turning red. “Sorry!” she choked out, and Sherlock scrambled forwards as she backed up the steps.

 

“No! No! I’m sorry! I should have asked! Molly!”

 

And then she was inside, and her door was closed.

 

What was he supposed to do? His heart was pounding because he ruined things with one of the few people who made him feel normal and he desperately wanted that back. He thought about calling Mycroft as he went back down her stairs, but as he hailed a cab, he knew he only had one place to go.

 

John answered on the second ring. Odd, considering this was usually the time that he and Mary were eating breakfast and feeding their baby, which was always a bit messy and time consuming. Then again, Sherlock knew he rarely called anyone because phone calls made him anxious which usually resulted in text messages, even to John Watson, his best friend.

 

“I ruined it John. It’s over. I—I—” He couldn’t breathe and his head was pounding and was he really even breathing anymore?

 

“Stop Sherlock! Try and breathe! Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

 

“In a cab. What’s your address? I can’t remember and I left my notebook at home. I can’t remember, John. I can’t—”

 

John interrupted Sherlock before he could work himself up even more. Calmly, he said his address to Sherlock, repeating it two times before Sherlock managed to repeat it back to the cabbie. John stayed on the phone with Sherlock until the cab pulled to a stop in front of his home, where he was waiting for him outside. John paid for the cab and helped Sherlock inside, leading him straight to the dark spare bedroom they kept for him, always.

 

\-----

 

It felt likes years had passed, when really it had been only about two weeks since the kissing incident. All energy Sherlock had prior to the incident was gone. Most days he struggled getting out of bed and into the shower, let alone work cases or go to his appointments. Mycroft usually dragged him to his appointments, just to make sure he could at least see his therapist.

 

Sherlock hated even looking in Mycroft’s direction, because he could just imagine his sneer and his irritation. _“You let a stupid little girl ruin all your progress, William!”_ Mycroft’s voice echoed in his head. _“Love is a chemical defect. Caring is a disadvantage.”_ Had Mycroft said that to him recently? Was this a memory from when he was in university? Everything was so confusing.

 

Sherlock never noticed that Mycroft only looked at him with sorrow in his eyes, as if he completely understood how Molly Hooper’s rejection was affecting him; as if Sherlock and Molly had known each other for years rather than a few short months. But Sherlock never looked his brother in the eyes because even post Traumatic Brain Injury, Sherlock couldn’t stand pity, and that all he thought he would see from his brother.

 

John visited nearly daily, and most of the time Mary and Scarlett tagged along. Scarlett was always a joy to be around, begging Sherlock to play or read or watch the telly, but talking to John and Mary about his problems was exhausting, so Sherlock found himself usually studying his notebook when his friends were over, only taking breaks to play with the littlest Watson.

 

Molly hadn’t tried to call or text, and Sherlock left that well alone. He knew that he could only apologize so many times before it got annoying, and even his therapist said that he should leave it alone; if Molly wanted to talk about it, she would approach him.

One morning, Sherlock heard talking coming from his sitting room. Assuming it was any combination of John, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock slowly pulled himself out of bed and went straight to his bathroom. He had an appointment with his therapist later that morning, and he knew he needed to shave and shower to at least give the appearance that he was alright.

 

After his hot shower, shave, and a fresh suit, Sherlock walked barefoot from his bedroom and into his sitting room, freezing at the sight of Molly Hooper sitting in the chair that Sherlock designated as John’s. She was looking at her phone, but at the sound of Sherlock’s startled gasp she turned around to look at him.

 

“Good morning,” she said softly.

 

Sherlock managed to just stare at her.

 

“Have a seat. I really need to talk to you.”

 

Sherlock moved slowly, not taking his eyes off Molly. He lowered himself into his seat and just stared at her.

 

“Okay…” she murmured, tucking her phone into her pocket. She leaned over and plucked a large photo album from her bag, and that’s when Sherlock noticed she brought quite a large bag full of things with her to his flat. “Sherlock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m really sorry about the way I’ve been acting,” she began, leaning forward to touch his hand before settling back in John’s seat. “I’ve been going through a lot the last few months, but that’s no excuse for me blowing you off and not texting or calling you when I know that…things have been just as hard for you.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just staring at the floor between their seats. He hated that things were hard for him, that people needed to treat him delicately, and that he couldn’t object because he really needed it most days. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, the first one since Sherlock had known Molly.

 

Molly sighed and shifted in her seat. “I have something to tell you...but it’s not easy, okay?”

 

Sherlock nodded his head. Here it was. All the evidence that Molly Hooper was in love with someone else, a man or woman or whoever that was taken away from her rather cruelly, if Sherlock had his deductions right.

 

“Before your accident, for two and a half years actually, we were dating.” Sherlock could see her holding her breath, but Sherlock just shook his head and lifted an eyebrow. Mycroft tried to feed him the same lines when he was in the hospital! Why did everyone think he was good enough to snag a woman like Molly Hooper?

 

“I’ve got evidence,” Molly said, leaning forward and passing him the rather large photo album. Sherlock took it, staring at the sleek leather bound book. He tapped his fingers against it, chewing on his bottom lip.

 

“If we were dating for two and a half years,” Sherlock murmured, feeling confused (a feeling that was getting rather exhausting), “then why aren’t you here?” Before Molly could answer, he added, “Why haven’t I seen anything that belongs to you? Why don’t you live here?”

 

“I basically did!” Molly said, leaning closer to him. “I used to sleep here every night. For the last year. We were waiting for my lease to end and then I was going to move in. We were even talking about—” Here she stopped, covering her mouth with her hand. Sherlock swallowed thickly and reached for her hand that was balled into a fist.

 

“Talking about what?” he asked softly.

 

“About getting married,” she croaked, and Sherlock saw tears shining in her eyes. “But then you got in the accident and the night we went to dinner at Angelo’s, remember? Mrs. Hudson was there! It was the first time you went out?” She waited patiently for Sherlock to rack his mind, because things were getting muddled and confused. It took him a moment, and then he remembered. _“Hudders!”_ He nodded his head at Molly to continue. “Mycroft said it would be in your best interest if I just moved back into my own flat and forgot about our _dalliance_ ,” she said, with a clear look of disgust on her face. “So while you were still living with him, I came here and collected my things. But I left clues! I left them everywhere…” Molly looked around the room, scrutinizing the flat. “But I guess Mycroft cleaned this place with a fine tooth comb.”

 

Suddenly Sherlock sat up straight, the unopened photo album tumbling out of his hands. He touched his fingers to his mouth, remembering the only thing he found odd about his flat when he moved in. “My pillow…” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He was such an idiot! How did he not notice sooner?

 

“Your pillow?” Molly prompted.

 

“It smelled like…it smelled like you.”

 

They sat in silence for a long time as Sherlock tried to come to terms with this new information. Then he leaned down and picked up the dropped album and placed it back in his lap. “The anniversary…”

 

“Anniversary?”

 

“The day I went to Bart’s…and you were really upset. John mentioned that it was an anniversary for you…with someone you lost. I’m that someone you lost?”

 

Molly nodded her head, that same blasted sad smile on her face. “You asked me out the same day as our third year anniversary. You made these big elaborate plans and demanded I take a holiday,” Molly said, giggling and wiping tears from her eyes, “which I forgot about by the time you were in the hospital.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been grieving me when I’ve been here but _not here_ this entire time.”

 

“It’s okay.” Molly leaned forward and took his hand. “John and Mary and Greg have been really good to me and I’ve been seeing my own therapist.” Molly sent him a watery smile and then pointed to the album still closed in his lap. Sherlock gently took his hand back and stroked the cover of the album, wishing he could go back to the day that he got in the car with Greg and change the outcome of this whole disaster that’s become his life.

 

He chewed his bottom lip as he looked through the album, his hands trembling all the while. Photographs, ticket stubs, receipts, pressed flowers, little trinkets and bobbles that Molly had saved throughout the years of their acquaintanceship, then friendship, and finally relationship.

 

They had been in love.

 

He felt like it was hard to breathe and his nose and eyes were burning as he reached the end of the book, the last photograph of Molly and his parents at some dinner. He evidently took the photo because he wasn’t in it.

 

It was embarrassing, for one, not to believe both his brother and his…Molly, that he had a girlfriend. How Lestrade and John and Mary and even his parents knew he had a significant other, and he didn’t! And he was famous in the papers, how had they not written anything about a breakup or the lack of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper moments? And then he was ashamed! Molly knew him intimately, better than anyone on this planet and he couldn’t even remember… _What she must think of me, just a fraction of the man I used to be…_

 

“Sherlock, please…don’t be upset.”

 

“How can you stand me?” he asked, looking at her briefly before lowering his gaze to the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes. Lately in his sessions with his therapist, they had been working on his self-esteem, and all that progress seemed to fly out the window.

 

He felt worthless.

 

“You have Post Traumatic Amnesia and are suffering from a Traumatic Brain Injury. Everyone, your doctors, John, even myself are surprised that you have managed to regain memories at all. And your short term memory hasn’t decreased. It improved a bit and then has stayed constant since you’ve left the hospital. For someone in your position, that’s humongous progress!” Molly leapt forward, taking Sherlock’s hands tightly in her own.

 

He tried to smile, but he felt his lips wavering, and then tears were falling from his eyes and his ability to breathe was decreased to almost nothing. “I’m so sorry!” he gasped out, before hunching forward, wrapping his arms around his knees, hugging the album to his chest. He stayed that way for a very long time until he felt like he had nothing left in him. When he opened his eyes again, he realized Molly was crouched beside him, a comforting weight leaning against his side with her fingers running through his hair.

 

“I can’t be the man I was before,” he whispered, sniffing. Molly slowly moved away from him, but Sherlock caught her gaze and held it. “I’m not wired to be that Sherlock anymore. This is me now. I can’t—I can try, but…”

 

Molly cupped his cheek and shook her head. “I don’t want you to be someone you aren’t. This,” she said, waving her hand around, indicating him, his flat, and what it was to be Sherlock Holmes post Traumatic Brain Injury, “is nothing compared to living the rest of my life without you.”

 

Epilogue:

 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes never did regain his missing memories, but that was alright, because he was surrounded by people who loved him and cared for him, and teased him jokingly every time he got caught staring at Molly Hooper a little bit too long when she was working in the morgue. (The teasing almost solely came from Greg.) And even though Mycroft had made the executive decision to effectively erase Molly from his life, he had nothing but love for his brother because he was just trying to protect him. And that’s what big brothers are for, right? Memories of Mycroft saving him from swarms of bees, from feral cats in the garden, from drugs, and from dangerous criminals always floated around in his mind, reminding him that Mycroft, no matter the method, was always looking out for him.

 

That doesn’t mean he wasn’t mad at first, because he was. He was very angry, but in the end…Mycroft _was_ his brother, and as Mrs. Hudson always whispered, family is what we had in the end…

 

And Sherlock had his good days and bad days. Most days were now headache free, but every once in a while, he would get migraines so strong that he couldn’t get out of bed. Side effects from the accident, his doctors said, and on those days, with strict supervision from John and usually Molly, Sherlock would take triptans to stop the pain. John kept the drugs hidden in his flat at Sherlock’s request, and at the first signs of a headache, Sherlock would send John a distress text, and John would drop whatever he was doing and run to Sherlock’s aid.

 

His life was definitely different than before, but Molly Hooper loved him. She loved him when he wasn’t feeling his best, when it seemed like therapy wasn’t helping him; she loved him when he solved a case brilliantly; she loved him as he got to know not only her, but himself too, and she especially loved him when he felt like he didn’t deserve her, as if his years using drugs (which to him was still so recent) meant that he needed to live the rest of his life miserable.

 

Oh. And he loved her with his whole heart, with every fiber in his being! He was certain it was from the moment he first set eyes on her, but his memory was still a little hazy from the early days after his accident. But that didn’t matter because Molly Hooper was the beautiful prize of his life, which trumped the prize of his beautiful mind.

 

**_Fin._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being on this years long journey. I appreciate all the comments, kudos, and fic recs! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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